


Pale Green Stars

by mirdddd



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Nen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:14:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28540164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirdddd/pseuds/mirdddd
Summary: Hisoka is a terror, according to his case worker. Nevertheless, Bisky is up for a challenge.A collection of snippets from Hisoka's childhood being raised by his adoptive mother Bisky!
Comments: 25
Kudos: 29





	1. Transitions

Linda’s thick, cat-eyed glasses hang low on her drooping nose, almost as if the sheer weight of the frames are stretching it down like salt water taffy. Her hand, decorated with obnoxiously loud agate jewelry, grips the boy’s wrist tightly, dragging him with every swing of her short arm. His small legs stutter forward in an uneven rhythm until they stop a few feet from where Bisky had parked and loaded the trash bag full of his belongings into her Honda CR-V. 

With another jerk of her arm, Linda spins the boy to face her. Her other hand, similarly bedazzled, pinches the boy’s chin, tilting it up forcefully. “Now, be a good little boy, so you can get adopted.” Linda’s threat is masked behind her sweet granny voice. To complete the performance, the hand on his chin migrates to his cheek and pinches, presumably hard. 

The boy’s face is hidden behind long, unkempt bangs, so the silent communication that passes between the two is lost to Bisky. Suddenly, the boy jerks his face away, then his wrist. A  _ humph _ from Linda follows directly. He silently makes his way to the backdoor of the car, yanking it open and hopping in without so much as a glance at Bisky. Linda, the case worker, hands some paperwork over to Bisky, bids her good luck and goodbye, then hobbles back towards the entrance of the group home. 

Bisky peers into the car. In the back, where she had placed the car seat, a plume of curly blonde hair peeks over the headrest. She pauses for a second, remembering the words of Linda earlier that month during the home visit. Bisky had only earned approval for adoption if she agreed to foster him for a short period first. “We’ve made that mistake with him before,” Linda had said, as she peered at the collection of jewels and crystals Bisky had on display in her living room. 

The words hang over her head, soaking into her skin like the dank Autumn heat as Bisky approaches the car carefully and slips into the driver’s seat. She peers at the child in the rearview mirror and talks herself up - even coal can be crafted into a diamond. She turns in her seat, smiling brightly, “Hisoka, are you ready to go home now?”

Dark eyes peer at her through wavy bangs. After a brief moment of sustained eye contact, his eyes flit back down to the playing cards in his lap. Far too big for his small hands, he shuffles through the deck with a certain practiced grace that seems almost alien. Bisky sighs. At least he would be entertained on the ride home, she thinks.

He doesn’t say a word for the rest of the night. Not when she walks him to the front door of her charming little house, a gust of cool sweet air welcoming them home. Not when she shows him his room, his big soft bed and his own personal bathroom with a cute shark themed bath mat in front of the tub. Not when she serves him her homemade mac and cheese she had prepped the day before - or when she orders pizza after he barely touches the mac and cheese. He grants her a glare when she stays in the bathroom to monitor him while he bathes and brushes his teeth for bed. When she stands in his bedroom doorway, wishing him a goodnight, he simply turns off the light on his bedside table and turns over, hugging his deck of cards to his chest. 

He doesn’t talk for a week. Even when she tries prompting him. “Hisoka, do you want to go to the park? Hisoka, do you want chicken or pasta for dinner? Hisoka, do you want to watch TV before bed?” There isn’t so much as a peep from him until they are standing in Target’s toy aisle, looking up at rows of glistening packages of playing cards. The blonde curls covering his face part like curtains. Bright blue eyes with halos of molten golden at their center gaze up in wonderment. “Which one do you want?” Bisky asks. 

Hisoka’s eyes catch Bisky’s immediately, a clear hunger in his gaze. “I can get one?” he whispers. His shoulders shrink slightly at the sound of his own voice. 

Bisky nods and his small arms raise up, stopping short before the deck on the lowest rack. “This one?” Bisky asks, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at the bright pink deck. Hisoka nods, curls bouncing back and forth. When she places it in his hands, he turns it over, inspecting it. “Well?” Bisky prompts. 

His pink, slightly chapped lips part for the first time, giving her a smile with a tooth or so missing. His cheeks balloon until Bisky can only see a sliver of the cheerful glimmer in his impish eyes. He nods vigorously, curls go flying again, “Yes.”

For a moment, Bisky tricks herself into believing the cards have solved all her problems. They have broken the strong and spiny chains constricting Hisoka’s heart, dissolved his distrust, and begun the process of polishing Hisoka into a perfect precious gem. 

On the card ride home, he jumps in his seat, flipping through the new deck, giggling and telling her every fact he knows about playing cards. “This is a French suit and the suit means the shapes on the cards and they have hearts and diamonds and clubs and spaces!” 

“I think you mean spades,” Bisky corrects. 

“Nuh-uh, lady. It’s _ spaces _ .”

_ Lady  _ is not a derogatory term, not necessarily, but Bisky can feel her left eye begin to twitch almost immediately. However, she stops herself, he is a child. He doesn’t know any better. Besides, it is her job as his guardian to teach him these things. She lets her grip tighten on the wheel minutely, a small and subtle release, before responding in a cheerful tone, “I have a name, Hisoka. You can call me Bisky. Or perhaps you would prefer Mom.”

His laugh is sharp, yet playful. “No way,  _ lady _ . You aren’t my mom.”

The eye twitch is promoted to full time now and, if she listens closely, she can hear the brake pedal begin to whisper sweet nothings. But again, she must force herself to remember, he is a child. He has no idea. “No, but maybe one day I could be. Until then, you can call me Bisky.”

“Bicky?” Close. 

“No, Bisky.”

“Bibi?” Not so close. 

“Bisky.”

“Beady. Beep boop? Beet bear? Beeper?” He’s just playing with her now. 

“Hisoka-”

“Bitch!”

It is only a coincidence that the light turns red. Truthfully, she has not been paying attention. His shout temporarily graduated the eye twitch to a full on spasm of the left side of her face, jaw locked, nostril flared, lips pursed into a snarl. Her foot slams onto the brake. The tires’ squeals block out the blood pumping loudly in her ears and the giggles from the back seat. But only momentarily. Soon, the cheering begins, “Bitch, you’re a bitch! Bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch!”

Bisky rests her head on the wheel - it’s the only thing keeping her from introducing Shaken 5-year-old Child Syndrome into the physical injury equivalent of the DSM. A shallow breath out. Bisky remembers, distantly, some clause in Hisoka’s personal summary about his propensity for foul language and inciting anger in others. In the rearview mirror, she catches him waiting for her to make eye contact. “Bitch, bitch, bitch!” he sings. His tiny arms are up in the air, hands twirling. 

“Beautiful song, Hisoka,” she forces herself to coo. 

The boy’s eyes narrow, if only slightly, but he continues with bravado, “Bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch!” 

Oh, this is a game, she realizes. A smirk crawls onto her face. She will indulge him, play his little game and, of course, win. 

Bisky confidently brings her gaze back to the road. Hisoka’s tune changes from “Mary Had a Little Lamb” to “Row Row Row Your Boat” with an almost seamless transition as the light turns green. Bisky gently eases onto the gas. The sounds of “Bitch” fade out as she settles into her seat, a strange comfort seeping into her as she accepts the unspoken challenge from a curly haired hellion strapped into a Graco booster seat.

* * *

Hisoka’s bad behavior only continues to escalate after that incident. After he has determined that name calling is not the thing that will make Bisky tick, he turns to general disruption: banging pots and pans while Bisky works, pulling all the couch cushions onto the floor and running around the living room like a jungle gym, purposefully peeing everywhere in the bathroom but the toilet. He even wakes up in the early hours of one Monday morning to draw penises all over the walls of Bisky’s home office in Sharpie. He is exactly the terror Linda not-so-subtly warned her of.

Bisky anticipates this, of course. The unspoken agreement that had occurred on that ride back from Target signified the beginning of a bitter struggle that would conclude only with the crumbling of one combatant’s willpower. Little did Hisoka know that Bisky had spent 18 years of her life, dedicating herself, honing her body and mind, to mastering the Martial Arts. Her physical and mental strength had brought down many enemies much more impressive than a five year old. This is a battle of endurance and she already has 34 years on him.

Besides, mentoring youth is not foreign territory to her either. In her years of experience, she was master to many young students. Though none as young as five, some were similarly abrasive. Nevertheless, she had polished each and every one into sparkling gems with a success rate of 100%. In fact, she muses, starting at such a young age is the most ideal condition. He had not yet fallen too deeply into bad habits. Soon she will mold him into the perfect warrior. He will take the world by storm, defeating enemies handily and proudly conquer all challenges. While the boy is playing a silly game to break Bisky by annoying her into submission, or perhaps insanity, Bisky’s goal is much larger than his tiny mind could even fathom. Hisoka is bickering in a skirmish. Bisky is fighting a world war. 

By the end of his first month with Bisky, Hisoka is giving up on his latest protest, a hunger strike, so Bisky knows when she calls him to the table he will show up eventually. She has already served herself a second time when little footsteps stomp up to the table. The wooden chair scratches loudly against the herringbone floor and Bisky casually reminds herself to purchase felt pads for the feet of the chairs. 

His spoon scoops into the bowl, bringing a single bowtie pasta to his lips. He chews only for a moment before his face contorts and a shredded noodle drips from his mouth onto the placemat. “It’s cold!” he whines.

“Well, Hisoka, if you had come to the table when I had asked, it would not be cold. Would you like me to warm it up for you?”

The spoon ricochets off the table and scatters across the floor. His face is red like the tomato sauce spattered on his cheek.

“Would you like a new spoon too? Perhaps a fork?”

His voice is raw when he screams. Not like the previous times, when he’s shouting in between giggles. This is a high pitched wail, like that of a small cornered animal, “Shut up!” His breathing is ragged and forceful. Bisky can spot the glimmer of tears welling up in his eyes.

Hisoka, for the first time in a month, has taken her by surprise. He pulls out an unexpected tactic that leaves her completely exposed. Her voice is soft and wary, “Hisoka-”

“Send me back!” he screams. “You don’t like me! You don’t like me! You don’t like me! You don’t like me!” The tears flow freely. He wipes at his face with his palms, smearing snot and tomato sauce onto his cheeks. 

“Hisoka.” Bisky is almost whispering. “That’s not true. I do like you.”

“Liar!” he screeches. “You’re lying! No one likes me! No one!” 

He tumbles from the chair. His hands and knees slap the floor. His wails increase in pitch and volume. He runs to his room, his gangly arms swinging back and forth, propelling him as fast as they can. The door slams shut behind him, echoing in the small cottage. Then, the dining room is quiet but for the muffled sobs of a heartbroken child. 

It takes Bisky a moment to gather herself. Perhaps she shouldn’t have indulged him like this. Perhaps she should have found another way to deal with his now obvious cries for help. Perhaps she wasn’t prepared to take on a child after all. Her newfound self doubt weighs on her like a Catholic’s guilt in a confessional as his cries reverberate in her skull indefinitely.

With another wave of sobs, louder than the prior, she finds her body moving instinctually. Not a motherly instinct necessarily, but similarly rooted in the need to heal and restore. She knocks lightly on his door before entering. His cries echo, but he is nowhere to be seen. The shuffling of sticky skin on the hardwood floor emanating from under the twin bed draws her attention. Slowly she gets down on her hands and knees and peers under.

In the dark shadows of the bedroom lit solely by the spaceship lamp sitting on his bedside table, it is hard to make out the exact expression on his face, but she easily sees his small hands clutching a deck of playing cards to his chest. His cries shake his whole body like he is erupting, bursting with anguish rooted at his very center. As her body lowers to the ground, he pushes himself further back until he is curled up into the corner. 

Her options are limited. She is far too big to go crawling in after him. She could easily lift the bed, but he crawled under there for a reason and taking away the safety of his little hiding spot could cause even more damage at this point, she wagers. 

She lets her body ease onto the floor, rolling onto her back. In the moment of uncertainty that passes, helpless as the child she is supposed to be nurturing cowers away from her, a scathing insecurity resurfaces. Maybe if she weren’t such a beast of a woman, she wouldn’t have to worry about terrifying a child with her mere existence. But she is quick to push the thought away, instinctively letting it ride away on a long exhale. 

She pauses for a moment, letting the sensation of empty lungs draw her focus. After a count of ten, she reintroduces oxygen into her system, entering through her nostrils. Her stomach fills first, then her chest. She breathes in until she can’t anymore. Air sits patiently at the back of her tongue. Then, the air rushes out. A small constriction of her throat makes the exhale sound like a wave crashing on the shore of a deserted beach. Stark, yet peaceful. She repeats the cycle a few times, letting her breath drown out the cries. 

Soon, there are no more cries. She turns her head slowly, continuing with her breathing. Hisoka’s eyes are glistening and wide. He does not cower when she turns her head. In fact, her breathing seems to have drawn his attention away from his inner turmoil. “Hisoka,” she whispers. “Would you like to breathe with me?”

There’s a small nod. She exhales through her mouth and begins to explain. They practice breathing for what seems like hours. He has definitely not mastered the technique by the time their session comes to a natural conclusion, but his focus throughout is impeccable. 

Bisky checks her watch as Hisoka crawls out from under the bed. It’s only been forty minutes. She supposes this will be her new normal: the bad times with Hisoka will last long and the good times too short. He sits beside her on the ground. Dust coats the left side of his head; the curls that had captured it are somewhat flattened. His eyes are puffy, but wide. His legs are crossed neatly. In between his hands resting in his lap are the cards she had bought him, the ones he had been clinging to for dear life when she found him howling under the bed. 

“Are you hungry?” she asks, her voice calm and measured. 

“Yes,” he whispers. 

If she hadn’t just spent nearly an hour with him on the floor, she would have offered to heat up his pasta. However, she thinks better. It might be best to avoid what started this mess in the first place. Besides, at this point, both of them deserve a treat. “Do you want to get fast food and then maybe stop on our way back for ice cream?”

A smile breaks out on his face. He jumps up, still clutching his cards, and runs out of the room with a skip in his step. She follows him to the foyer, where he tugs on his sneakers. He laces them up in such a rush that within one step they come untied, but he trots out the door blissfully unaware nonetheless. Bisky lets him have this moment and simply hopes that he will not trip as she locks the front door and opens the car for him.

“Hisoka, where would you like to go?” she asks, pulling out of the driveway into the quiet cul de sac. 

Hisoka cheers, “McDonald!”

There’s one and a half miles of country road between Bisky’s cottage and the center of town. The houses are few and far between, but Bisky prefers it that way. It’s several minutes before the landscape would turn into cityscape. Their drive is like a passage through limbo, quiet and innocuous. Hisoka rolls down his window and warm summer air pours into the car along with the chatter of  crickets and katydids. 

Bisky glances at him in the mirror and finds his hair aglow with the light of the setting sun. Flaming curls lick his cheeks. His lips bear a smile, a benevolent one with hints of his natural cunning. His eyes glimmer as if he’s finally looking clearly at the world, as if he has conjured a pair of rose colored glasses that blind him from his own turmoil. If only. 

“Look!” he giggles almost to himself. “Moo-moo cows!


	2. The Great Wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hisoka is a con artist. Bisky is unimpressed.

Bisky doesn’t trust therapists. Her skepticism is not derived from any personal experience of her own, but she thinks anyone should be wary of a middle aged woman named Janice telling them that their child, who she sees for only 30 minutes every week, should see a psychiatrist who would be able to “treat” them properly - in other words, medicate them into submission. She not only discontinues Hisoka’s sessions with that therapist immediately, but she also makes sure to leave several nasty reviews on Yelp. Weekly.

The next therapist is better, opting to recommend only behavioral therapy, but Bisky cannot shake her general suspicions. That is why she opts to delay Hisoka’s enrollment in kindergarten for a year, so she can be as hands-on as possible during this important period of transition for them both. At the end of the day, she is the one in charge smoothing out his rough edges and she’ll be damned if she doesn’t do it well. 

This process is not foreign to Bisky. The balance of body and mind is one of her chief tenets. She planted the seed of that belief when she began her journey to master the martial arts, crafting her body into a fortress with solid foundations and heavy bolstering. It is not a beautiful body - not even one that she can stand to look at most of the time - but it is secure and dependable, an achievement in and of itself. 

As time passed and her body remained solid, her dedication revealed itself as surface and stagnant. However, this realization spurred newfound passion in Bisky and a path opened, naturally. External combat shifted to internal combat. Meditative practices allowed Bisky to unite the mastery of body with the mastery of mind and bridge the ever widening gap of an impending midlife crisis. 

She often explains her career change as a direct consequence of this philosophical awakening. She tends to intentionally skip over the more materialistic, economic factors motivating the decision. The fact of Bisky’s career up until that point was this: there is only minute consumer interest in Women’s Heavyweight Class MMA. So little that the vast majority of formal organizations don’t even recognize the class as existing. Her professional career was non-existent before it could even begin. Besides that impossibility, the next option - the endless mentoring gigs - wasn’t all that lucrative either. 

By change, she stumbled across the field of esthetics at her gynecologist’s office. Across from her in the waiting room, two slightly sedated, perfectly plucked young women discussed how the adoption of Zen meditation practices enhanced the effectiveness of their dermatological procedures. 

“It feels as though through mastering my internal beauty, I was able to master my external beauty,” one exhaled weakly. 

“Yes, I totally vibe with that.” The other’s eyelids fluttered like they might never open again. “I go to the NYA Wellness Spa on 16th. My lady there, Clarisse - she opens my chakras and I can feel the beauty explode from within.”

Bisky enrolled in esthetician school directly after her appointment. 

Bisky’s luxury spa is located fifty minutes outside the big city - the optimal location for rich housewives, heiresses and the like desperately fleeing the oppressive haze of urban life. The fresh airs of the countryside compliment the calm and soothing esthetic treatments Bisky has to offer, relaxing their bodies, minds and bankrolls. 

At the time of Hisoka’s arrival, Bisky’s business is still in its early stages - her staff is just beginning to stabilize and her debts are slowly starting to settle. Thankfully, the Blue Planet Spa is self-sufficient enough to allow her to work from home, monitoring Hisoka, for a little over a month. However, Bisky knows she can’t keep Hisoka cooped up forever. At this point, it’s detrimental - Hisoka needs to reintegrate himself with the world and Bisky needs to regain some semblance of normalcy. 

Bisky sets up a play station for Hisoka in her office to keep him entertained while he accompanies her at work. Along with the playing cards he is never without, she also supplies him with toy cars, legos, crayons and markers, and something called “Moon Sand,” which she desperately hopes he will keep contained within the small sandbox it came with. While all these toys are to Hisoka’s liking, the highlight of his day is when Bisky takes her tridaily strolls about the complex. He likes hearing the sound of wax being ripped from skin, smelling the warm aromas of the oils used in the massage therapies, and peeking into the sauna at the reclined naked ladies. However, his favorite place of all is the nail salon.

He calls it the Great Wall, because, to a five year old, it is. The wall at the back of the salon is lined with hundreds - if not thousands, Hisoka supposes - of nail polish bottles. The majority of colors are washed out pinks and reds, mauve, burgundy, muted colors, mostly. Stupid colors, Hisoka thinks. He spends most of his time in the salon peering up at a small section of the horde, where the bright pinks, greens, blues and reds sit aside. He is drawn to them as if they are calling out for his help. If he looks closely, he can see the dust collecting on the bottles and his small heart aches. How could anyone cast aside colors as pretty as these? However, before he ever has the chance to rescue them, nurture them, and decorate his nails with their luscious pigments, Bisky always calls him back to the office with promises of snacks. 

The weight of those abandoned bottles sits on his shoulders through snack time, on the car ride home, and even when Bisky tucks him into bed at night. He can’t help but mourn them, trapped away on that lonely dusty shelf. Finally, one day, he decides he cannot sit idly by any longer - he realizes what he must do, the sacrifice he has to make. 

Bisky is at her desk, typing away. She has been typing for several minutes now. Her brows are pulled together a touch, her lower lip juts out slightly. It is the perfect time, Hisoka decides. He tiptoes behind her desk, resting his chin on the surface, watching her nails jab at the keys. The dusty pink layer of polish on her nails is showing signs of wear, chips are missing on the left forefinger and right thumb. Hisoka is so distracted by the imperfections that he almost forgets his mission entirely. 

Hie turns his head to the side, looking up at Bisky’s almost imperceptibly unsettled expression. “Bisky,” he whispers in a purposefully soft voice.

“Yes, Hisoka?” she responds. Her eyes do not stray from the computer screen. 

Perfect.

“I gotta go potty.” This is the only faulty portion of his plan. The last time he went to the bathroom by himself he got in trouble for “making a mess.” Hisoka disagrees. He thinks it was brilliant - the way wet toilet paper stuck to the walls, the way he could arrange it into anything he wanted, the way the paper really mimicked the real texture of the bunny it was formed into.

Without missing a beat, Bisky’s eyes jump from the screen and peer into his soul. They narrow in obvious suspicion. However, Hisoka expects this, so he simply blinks like a clueless puppy. Finally, she relents. “Yes,” she says carefully. “But come right back.” He nods, keeping his expression neutral. Her eyes follow him until he is in the hallway, closing her door behind him slowly, careful to not let his excitement peek through.

As soon as the coast is clear, he breaks into a skip, bouncing all the way to the nail salon. There is only one customer being attended to when he arrives: a tall, thin woman with dark hair and large sunglasses. Hisoka recognizes her as one of the few clients that doesn’t coo at him when he trots in beside Bisky. Even now, she doesn’t even bother acknowledging his existence. He takes this as a good sign - she likely won’t interfere with his plot - so he trots past her and her occupied nail artist to Eris. 

Eris is the youngest staff member of the Blue Planet Spa. She is green not only to work, but also to life, thus making her Hisoka’s perfect target. As he approaches her, he quiets his steps, raising himself on the balls of his feet and padding towards her gently. When he reaches her station, he clasps his hands behind his back, points the tips of his feet towards each other, and looks up at her under batting blonde lashes. 

Eris turns to him and he can already tell she’s melting in the palm of his hand. “Hi, pumpkin. What are you doing out here all alone?”

He babies his voice, “My mommy said I can paint my nails, but I don't know how.”

The corners of Eris’s shiny lips pull down and she holds her hands over her chest as if her heart will burst out from within. “Oh, sweetheart,” she cooes. “I can paint your nails. Would you like that?”

He smiles bashfully, swiveling on one of his feet shyly. “Yes, please,” he whispers. 

Eris holds out her hand to Hisoka. “Let’s go pick out some colors.” 

Hisoka’s heart skips a beat. This is the moment he has been waiting for. He can’t contain his excitement anymore. He giggles, a skip in his step as Eris guides him to the Great Wall. She stops in the center, but he pulls her off to the side towards those that have been shunned. “This one!” he giggles, pointing at a bottle of electric fuchsia. “And this one!” His finger shifts to the bold turquoise. “Also, that one!” A row above is a gaudy orange that draws his attention. 

“What lovely colors, Hisoka!” Eris cheers. She quickly grabs the bottles and leads Hisoka back to her station before he can ask her to use every color on the wall. She adjusts his chair so his hands lay comfortably in front of her. His nails are small. A bit of dirt and what looks to be fragments of crayon are stuck underneath them. 

He watches in awe as she cleans his nails and uses her little sandpaper wand to make the tips of his nails into perfect half-moons. She buffs the tops of them too, smoothing over the small ridges, then pushes back the skin growing onto them. By the time she starts applying the polish, he’s in love. He likes the way her thin brows furrow in concentration and then relax when she sits back to admire her work. He likes how her fingertips are soft, yet firm when she pinches his fingers, gently rotating them to apply the polish. He especially likes the way she hums, her voice muffled behind full glossy lips that he can't take his eyes off of. She’s too lost in her work to notice him staring at her, mouth slightly ajar in a broken smile.

“Done with our first coat,” she announces. Hisoka’s mouth slams shut, his teeth audibly clacking together. He peers down at his hands. Eris has simply alternated the colors - pink, orange, turquoise - but Hisoka thinks its the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. Well, aside from Eris, of course. 

He is about to tell her this when the sound of flip flops echo from the main hall. The blueshift of the approaching noise draws Eris' - and subsequently Hisoka’s - attention to the entryway. An old man appears half a moment later. Hisoka’s eyes triple in size. The man’s yellow Hawaiian shirt is buttoned incorrectly, his cargo shorts are tattered at the edges, and his bright red flip flops are held together by strips of duct tape. The man has a chest length beard and a mustache that looks like he super glued several synthetic paint brushes to his upper lip. His thinning white hair is pulled up into a ponytail at the top of his head, exposing his ears. Hisoka cannot look away - how were his ears so long?

He hears Eris shift in her chair. Glancing back, he notices the stunned look on her face, a painting of pure terror. Following her gaze back to the source of her trauma, the old man smiling creepily, he cannot stop himself. He must banish the monster, slay the dragon to save the princess. He stands up on his chair and shouts, “No hobos allowed!”

“Hisoka!” Eris gasps. She grabs at his wrists, desperately trying to pull him back into his seat, but the old man simply laughs and saunters towards them. Hisoka is not one to back down, but when Eris pleads, “Hisoka, you’re ruining your nail polish,” he concedes. 

The old man stops beside Hisoka and looks down at his hands. “What an interesting choice in colors,” he remarks in a cheerful tone. 

Hisoka can’t help himself. Something feels off about this man. “Who are you?” he demands. He can hear Eris chide him again, but he’s too occupied with his one-sided staring contest to acknowledge her. 

The old man lets out another chuckle and then bends forward. “My name is Isaac Netero. And what is your name, young man?”

* * *

It turns out Mr. Isaac Netero was not a hobo. In fact, he was the exact opposite of that. He was extremely and exorbitantly rich. As a globally renowned martial artist, young practitioners and common folk alike would gawk at an appearance from him. He was a god among men, so much so that no action film was even worth watching without a cameo from Netero. 

“Then why does he look like a hobo?” Hisoka asks, peering out of the back window. They are stuck behind a tractor. Traffic is piled up on both sides of the curvy two lane road. They're trapped. 

“He’s a _minimalist_. Or so he thinks,” Bisky laughs to herself. 

“What’s a minimi- min- mimalis?” 

“Minimalist. It means he dislikes the idea of having things.” Bisky gestures at the air, rolling her eyes. Normally, the traffic would have her digging her nails into the steering wheel, but after that afternoon's events, she was thoroughly preoccupied. 

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“You’re right.” Bisky settles back into her chair. “I met him when I was young. I had just started learning martial arts and he saw promise in me. I trained under him for some time-”

“Martial arts?”

“Yes.”

“So you can kill people?” Bisky catches Hisoka’s gaze in the rearview mirror. The excitement in his eyes is slightly unsettling, but she forces herself to pass it off as a childish fascination.

“Perhaps, but that’s not the point of martial arts. It’s for defense-”

“Booooorrinnggggg!” He slumps against the car door. His chubby cheek squishes up against the window. Suddenly, his tongue darts out like an eel from its cave and leaves a trail of spit on the glass. 

Bisky pretends not to notice and continues, “Netero has been very good to me. He helped me when I needed money to open up the spa, so we need to be respectful when we see him. Alright, Hisoka?”

“Yef,” he agrees absentmindedly. His tongue is now planted firmly on the window.

"I'm serious, Hisoka. It's not nice to call people you don't know hobos. Or any name for that matter."

"But he was scaring Eris. I had to protect her." His tongue is tucked back in his mouth now and he’s leaning forward, hands clawing at the back of the driver's seat.

Bisky laughs, "Protect her? Since when do you have to protect Eris?"

Hisoka brows furrow. His lips crowd into a pout before he declares, "She's a princess and princesses have to be protected. I'm a knight. That's how this works."

The serious look in his eyes warns Bisky if she laughs again, he may throw himself into another fit. She glances ahead at the tractor and then behind at the tractor. "Yes, of course. You're right, Hisoka." She pauses, then smiles, remembering her conversation with Netero after she had extracted Hisoka from the nail salon. “You know what, Hisoka? Netero offered to give you some martial arts lessons. Would you be interested in that? It will help prepare you to defend your princess.”

“No,” he responds unexpectedly. “I don’t wanna do karate. I wanna do the dance with the tutus!”

“Ballet?”

“Yes!”

Bisky has to take a moment to adjust. In adopting a boy, she had anticipated her martial arts career to be the uniting force between her and her child. A heteronormative expectation, yes, but Hisoka, in the same instant of expressing interest in violence - murder in particular - and a desire to defend all of womankind, demands to be placed in tights and a skirt and to dance around on his tiptoes. It’s not a contraction necessarily, but it does feel somewhat incomprehensible. She glances back in the rearview mirror. His tongue is pressed to the glass yet again. 

“Yes,” Bisky nods finally. “Yes, you can do ballet.”

Hisoka squeals with delight. Spit sprays onto the window. Bisky sighs audibly and the tractor finally pulls off to the side of the road.


	3. Ballet Slippers and Courthouses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hisoka and Bisky's adventures in child's ballet. The courtroom isn't such a scary place.

He is limp, strewn across her knee. As she successfully wrangles one of his legs into the tights, she can’t help but feel as if some bad karma from previous lives has finally caught up to her. She is perched on the edge of a tiny toilet in the dance studio’s only bathroom. The wall decals mock her struggle. “Believe.” “Dance your heart away!” “Be kind!” Meanwhile, Hisoka has caught his breath enough to begin another round of intense wailing. 

The waterworks started when she had to break the news to Hisoka that boy’s ballet outfits don’t include a tutu. He collapsed immediately. “Why not?” he shouted in anguish. It was a fair question, but not one to be directed at her. Perhaps he should be asking the designers of the dancewear company that produced the sets or maybe to something grander, like the patriarchal norms that restrict little boys to a rigid and toxic ideal of masculinity. However, Bisky did not have the time to muse to Hisoka about the sexist roots of his problems while he flailed his legs and squirmed on the floor. With less than fifteen minutes to get him ready for his first lesson, she scooped him up in one arm and made a beeline towards the bathroom, passing by the crowd of sympathetic looking parents and their wide-eyed little girls. 

When they finally emerge from the restroom, Hisoka is dressed in his leotard, tights and socks. Bisky carries the slippers in one hand and drags him along with the other. They stop in the center of the reception area. Hisoka flops to the floor once again, slumped over Bisky’s feet and sobbing half-heartedly. 

The little girl appears out of nowhere. Her strawberry blonde hair is mostly restrained in a neat bun at the crown of her head, though her bangs are loose, puffing out over her forehead like her own personal cloud. Her pink skirt is balled up in a white-knuckled hand. Though petite, her feet stomping across the floor sound like tiny rolls of thunder until they come to a stop next to Hisoka’s head. The hand holding the skirt reaches up and then brings it down into Hisoka’s face with as much force as her small body can manage. “Shut up!” she demands before storming back to her father’s side. 

The room is silent for a moment except for the girl’s father reprimanding her. “Machi!” That is not how we treat people.” Machi’s chest is puffed with her arms crossed over it confidently. She stares at Hisoka as his hands reach up to the skirt on his face. He holds it up, examining it closely. As if he was never upset to begin with, he quietly stands up, slips the skirt onto his hips and breaks into giggles. 

The door to the classroom creaks open. A tall, strict-looking woman in ballet attire peers out over the children, surveying them as if they are crops ready to harvest. The smile that eases onto her face breaks the cold exterior. She bends forward, taking the hand of the little girl closest to her. “Alright, children.” Her voice is smooth and nurturing. “Why don’t we all come into the classroom with our quiet little ballet feet?” On command, the children pad after her on their tiptoes. Hisoka picks up the form naturally, taking his shoes from Bisky’s hand and bounding away on the balls of his feet silently. 

The parents, now child-less, congregate close to the wall dividing the reception area from the classroom. A long, continuous window for viewing is at its center. The stools perched underneath the window fill up quickly. Bisky makes her way to a stool far from the crowd and the sounds of conversations continued from lessons prior. As she lowers herself onto the squat seat, it finally occurs to her that she had failed to consider this integral part of parenthood when deciding to adopt a child: other parents. 

Bisky doesn’t dislike people necessarily. In fact, she finds them quite entertaining. However, to like and to entertain are nowhere near synonymous. What Bisky enjoys about the general public is how easy they are to confuse. She tests herself with every new interaction - to see how far she can bend others to her will. Her salon is like her playground, where every day she finds new ways to empty the pockets of her clients without them ever detecting her manipulative maneuvers. However, playing nice with other parents is a challenge she has yet to even formulate a plan for. It is almost entirely foreign. 

Before she even has a moment to contemplate the situation at hand and how any scheme on her part will directly affect Hisoka, a hand appears in her line of vision. The man attached to the hand slides onto the stool beside her, “Hans Komachine. Machi’s dad, the little girl that assaulted your child earlier. So sorry about that by the way. She means well, but she doesn’t know how to express her emotions yet, and well, you know how it is.”

Bisky takes a moment before grasping the hand in front of her. Hans’ feet, clad in Gucci leather loafers, dangle above the ground. His hair is reddish, much like his daughters, and his eyes are the same deep blue. He smiles when their hands meet and Bisky can’t tell which shines brighter, his teeth or the Rolex on his wrist. Bisky forces a smile, simultaneously trying to get a read on him, “Biscuit Krueger.”

* * *

As Bisky finds herself adjusting to the foreign realm of parental cliques, Hisoka has integrated himself flawlessly into the world of ballet. Five minutes into the class, Hisoka decides that ballet is the best thing ever. Not just because he gets to skip and jump, but also because the nice ballerina praises him for it. “You’re a quick learner, aren’t you?” she coos as she leads him by the hand to the front of the classroom. 

Hisoka’s curls fly behind him as he side-skips across the dance floor, stopping in a perfect first position and raising his arms into a rainbow over his head. His tutu swishes around his waist with every movement and he can’t help but giggle in pure delight. When he and the five little girls sharing the dancefloor with him have completed their sets, the ballerina has them sit along the mirrored wall in the back of the room to let the others have a turn. 

When choosing where to sit, Hisoka makes sure he’s seated as close to Machi, the pretty girl who gave him her skirt, as possible. However, no matter how close he scoots, he can never seem to draw her big blue eyes towards him. 

The little girl sitting in between them notices his longing gaze. Taking her finger out of her nose, she asks, “Hisoka, why is your mommy so big?” 

Hisoka is slightly bothered by her interruption, but he figures that it may help draw Machi’s attention. “That’s not my mom,” he corrects. “That’s Bisky.” 

Machi’s gaze doesn’t budge. The little girl narrows her eyes in confusion. She crosses her arms over her chest, “Where’s your mommy, then?”

Hisoka doesn’t have time for this. How is he supposed to woo Machi if he’s being pestered by this nosey little girl? He shrugs, not even bothering to look her way, “I don’t have one.”

“What do you mean?” Hisoka’s losing his patience. The little girl won’t leave him alone and still Machi is pretending like she doesn’t even know he exists. He brings his full attention to the girl. Her nostrils are flared as she spits, “ _Everyone_ has a mommy.”

Hisoka wants to hit her. He should, he reasons. She’s talking with her ass. At least, that’s what the adults would say. As his fist balls up at his side, a body tumbles over him. It’s another little girl. She straightens her glasses on her face while gathering herself from the spill. She points a finger at Machi, “Nuh-uh. Machi has two daddies!” She turns to Hisoka. “Do you have two daddies?”

Their noses are nearly touching. The only thing Hisoka sees is his reflection in the large pieces of glass perched upon her snotty nose. A sudden wave of hot air rushes over him. He feels as though he may suffocate. Scooting away, he mumbles, “No, I only have Bisky.”

“Who’s Bisky?”

“That humongous lady outside!”

“Oh!”

Along with his constricting, scratchy throat, an ache begins to pang in his chest. The girls’ discussion blends together, flowing in one ear and out the other with no pause for interpretation or even acknowledgement. His ears are hot. Before the tears can flood into his eyes, a hand wraps around his wrist, tugging him forth.

Machi pulls with all her might until Hisoka is towering over her. “Come on,” she demands. Her voice is softer than before, but her grip is unbreakable against his arm as she leads him onto the dance floor. “They’re meanies,” she adds over her shoulder. “Don’t talk to them.”

Hisoka pinches himself to make sure he’s not in a dream. She’s the one, he decides. Not only did she give him her skirt, but they also almost just held hands. This is what true love is. He can’t stop himself from grinning. He grins until his cheeks ache, until class is over and he is following her out of the door in a cloud of bliss. If he were in a cartoon, he pictures, he would be floating towards her, like a fish caught on her line. 

He is only brought back to reality by Bisky’s hand on his shoulder and her voice in his ear. “Okay, Hisoka. It’s time to give Machi her skirt back now.”

What an utter betrayal, he thinks. First, Bisky won’t buy him his own skirt and now she is forcing him to return the skirt his love so graciously bestowed upon him? Unbelievable. He is about to throw himself back onto the ground when the man with hair matching Machi’s waves his hand. “Oh, don’t worry about it. Machi has plenty of skirts at home. You can hold onto that one.”

Hisoka beams. When Bisky goes to thank the man, momentarily distracted, Hisoka’s hand dives into her bag. He finds his playing cards with ease and presents them to Machi. Their pink shimmery designs twinkle in the fluorescent lights above. Machi stares at him blankly. “Aren’t they cool?” he asks. He breaks the deck in half, shuffles them furiously, then holds them out to Machi in a fan.

Bisky knows this trick all too well. The first time she saw him perform it, she, too, was impressed. She looks back and forth between the pair of children. Hisoka’s devilish grin softens when he looks at Machi. When pulling off the feat, his eyes are laser focused, like his life depends on it. However, when he picks her card out of the deck and holds it up for everyone to see, he only gets reactions out of Bisky - one she performs out of instinct - and Machi’s father. Machi only continues to stare blankly at him, thoroughly unimpressed. Her father nudges her, encouraging a reaction, “Machi, wasn’t that impressive?” 

Her shoulders shrug. “I guess,” she sighs, turning away from Hisoka and lifting her arms up to her father. “Can we get Wendy’s?” she asks, batting her eyelashes. 

If Hisoka is bothered, he doesn’t show it. His face is cheerful as he watches her father pick her up. The promise of a potential play date only brightens his smile and the twinkle in his eyes. He is satisfied in a way that Bisky has never seen. Hopelessly in love, sedated by a pretty girl that is completely uninterested in him. How typical.

They leave together. Machi in her father’s arms and Hisoka trotting in between him and Bisky. As Bisky takes his hand in hers, leading him towards the back of the parking lot where they had parked in a rush, his other is held up high in the air, waving furiously at Machi until she disappears into the back of her father’s Porsche Cayenne. Then, he robotically climbs into his carseat, gazing at the card she had picked as if it was blessed. “Hisoka,” Bisky calls, breaking his daze just for a moment. “Please buckle your seatbelt.”

“Okay,” he sings, placing the card carefully in his lap before securing the belt around his waist. 

As Bisky pulls onto the road leading out of the city, Hisoka gently awakens from Machi’s spell. “Bisky?” he calls. 

“Yes, Hisoka?” 

“How are babies made?”

The air in the car goes still. The sound of Diane Rehm’s soft, yet wavering voice fills the silence while Bisky determines how to approach Hisoka’s question. Before the pause can become too apparent, she stammers, “Why do you ask that, Hisoka?”

Hisoka’s head thumps against the seat of the car. She catches his outspread arms in the rearview mirror. “Because Machi has two daddies and I thought only mommies and daddies could make babies but also I don’t even have a mommy or a daddy so where do babies even come from? Bisky, do you have a mommy and daddy?”

“Yes, I-”

“Where are they?” Hisoka’s hands latch onto the bars supporting her headrest.

“They passed away.”

“Oh.” Hisoka pauses as if his line of questioning is over, but he is only momentarily distracted by the sportscar that passes by. “Is that what happened to my mommy and daddy?”

Not only does Bisky not know the answer to the question, but she also has not yet thought of a way to explain to Hisoka the nature of his parentage and guardianship. She feels his hands tug on the headrest impatiently. Best not to lie about it, she determines finally. “I don’t know, Hisoka.”

His hands retreat and she hears his head slap against the leather of the chair again. “Then, why don’t I have a mommy and daddy?” His eyebrows are furrowed and the corners of his lips pull down. The fluttering of his eyelashes warn her she may only have a few seconds to defuse the impending meltdown. 

“Sometimes, Hisoka,” she begins, still not fully sure of her direction. “Sometimes, people have babies, but then they realise they can’t take care of the babies, so they give them to other people who can take care of them. Does that make sense?” She peers back in the rearview again to check his expression. 

Slowly, his lips begin to relax. He wipes an invisible tear from his eye. “So that’s why I don’t have a mommy and daddy?”

Bisky nods. Hisoka’s gaze drifts towards the window again, to the field full of what he has officially dubbed “Moo-Moo” cows. A small, yet audible sigh exits his mouth, dispelling the pent up anguish, before he asks, again, “But how do babies happen? How do mommies and daddies have babies?” Bisky drums her thumbs on the steering wheel. “And how does Machi have two daddies?”

Again, Bisky finds herself tempted to lie. However, the voice of Diane Rehm calls out to her like a guardian angel, “Supporters argue that he did not lie under oath. Rather, his testimony reflects the ambiguity of the questions posed by the prosecution.”

Bisky takes a deep breath. “Babies are made when two adults put a sperm and an egg together,” she beams confidently. “That sperm and egg combine and turn into a baby.”

“What’s a sperm?” Hisoka asks. He is leaning over the middle seat now, trying to reach his arms over to the other seatbelt. 

Be ambiguous, she reminds herself. “It is one of the ingredients for making a baby-”

“But where do you get one?”

Hisoka, predictably, is not giving up easily. “Sperm is produced in the adult testes and exits out of the adult penis-”

“I have a penis!”

“Yes, you do.” Bisky nods, partially to herself, hoping the discussion will end there. 

“But if Machi has two daddies, where did Machi come from?”

She glances at the dashboard. The clock reads 11:23. If she’s lucky, they’ll be home in 3 or so minutes, Hisoka will do his obligatory 4 to 5 cartwheels in the front lawn, and Bisky will distract him with the promise of lunch before he can take this line of questioning too far. “She came from a sperm and an egg, just like you.”

“But she has daddies! They both have spermies-”

“You don’t know that, Hisoka.”

“Huh?”

“Boys can have eggs and girls can have sperm,” Bisky explains slowly. She watches the cogs turning in his mind. His mouth is hanging open and he is gazing up at the ceiling of the car. “Hisoka, listen to me. Sometimes, two adults who want to have a baby can’t make a sperm or an egg. When that happens, they can borrow an egg or a sperm from someone else. Or, maybe, Machi is like you. Her daddies could have adopted her from some other adults that couldn’t take care of her. You never know, Hisoka.”

Diane Rehm’s voice dominates their conversation again. Yet, this time, she is completely uninterrupted. When Bisky glances back finally, Hisoka is still leaned over the middle seat. Machi’s card rests in his right hand. He stares at it with a small smile on his face. The promise of a kindred companion settles his agitated mind. He hugs the card to his chest, holding it there until Bisky turns into the driveway. This night, Hisoka does 6 cartwheels.

* * *

It’s always a shrill scream followed by muffled sobbing. The first time Bisky experienced it she thought there was an intruder. She had grabbed the baseball bat hidden behind her bed frame and tiptoed out into the hallway towards Hisoka’s bedroom. Upon swinging the door open and flipping on the switch in one fluid motion, she found no signs of life except for the heaving form underneath the blanket. When she uncovered him, another scream echoed and he began shouting, “No!” as he scurried towards the corner of the bed. 

Nightmares are a frequent occurrence for Hisoka. Frequent enough that Hisoka quickly became used to Bisky’s presence in his room following the terrors. Now, instead of running away, he lets himself be scooped up into Bisky’s strong arms. He tucks his head into her chest, curling up like a small defenseless animal, as she carries him into her room. Grabbing the remote control as she settles into the covers with him, she turns on C-SPAN, Hisoka’s comfort channel, and begins to drift back to sleep. As the sounds and stimuli of the waking world begin to drown out, she feels Hisoka’s small fingers tangle in her hair. His small puffs of breath ghost across her temple, settling into a steady rhythm she hopes signifies slumber. 

Four hours later, Bisky’s alarm blares. Hisoka lets out a whine, burying his head under the pillows. They are up earlier than normal. Today, Bisky will not be taking Hisoka to work with her, but to the courthouse, where they will finalize Hisoka’s adoption. Bisky had warned him several times about how early they would have to wake up to make their appearance, but neither of them had anticipated the rough night Hisoka would have. 

Bisky swings her legs out of bed, turning both the alarm and TV off before shifting her weight onto the floor. She lets Hisoka sleep for a bit longer while she prepares herself for the day. It’s nerve wracking. Even though she knows the court will grant her guardianship without a doubt, pangs of self doubt still flood through her from time to time. Does she really want to be a mother? Can she really meet the needs of a traumatized five-year-old? Will Hisoka ever really accept her as his parent?

Peeking back at Hisoka from the bathroom, she sees him in child’s pose, body slumped over his knees, head and arms hidden in the pillows. The green clover pattern on his pajamas has begun to fade away. He had insisted Bisky buy him the St. Patrick’s Day set, because they had “clubs” on them. He had worn them every day since, even though the season for St. Patrick’s day was months behind them. 

Bisky smiles at the memory, momentarily pacified. As she finishes curling the ends of her hair, small footsteps make their way into the bathroom. Hisoka’s sleep stricken eyes peer up at her underneath heavy lashes. She gazes down at him, expecting his normal declaration of having to use the bathroom, but instead he remains silent, transfixed by the curling iron in her hand and lulled by sleep deprivation. 

He stays put, standing in the doorway of the bathroom, until she leads him by the hand back to his room. “But court is where people play tennis. We should be wearing sports stuff,” he says, stepping into the khakis Bisky had prepared for him. 

“This is not that type of court, Hisoka. The court we’re going to has a judge and lawyers-”

“Are we in trouble?”

“No, Hisoka. We’re going to court so I can officially adopt you, remember?”

Hisoka threads his arms through the button-up. “But judges and lawyers are for bad people.”

“Not always.”

Bisky fastens the small buttons on the shirt as Hisoka is distracted by one of his curls. He starts to get antsy when she buttons the ones on his cuffs. The shoes are next, his favorite part. His tiny fingers tangle the pink shoelaces into a loose bow. “Then, we double knot!” he exclaims, tying the loops once more. He repeats the same process on the other side. 

The car ride is mostly peaceful thanks to Hisoka’s current obsession with David Bowie. He sings along in nonsensical English, fidgeting with the cards in his hand, "Mommy and poppy for you! Space imater!" It’s a warm, drizzly morning. Bisky’s windshield wipers are on their lowest setting. The overcast sky and the rising sun paint the clouds a brilliant pink and red. Hisoka rolls down his window, braving the heavy mist to get a better view, singing at passing cars. 

By the time Bisky parks, Hisoka’s curls are flattened down to his forehead with moisture. He doesn’t seem to notice though as he bounds out of the car, taking Bisky’s hand and pulling her towards the courthouse. Upon entering the building, Hisoka discovers the wonders of wet sneakers on marble floors. The shrill shrieking of his shoes irritates the other civilians, but his delighted laughter at the sound eases their annoyance until Bisky can make it through security and scoop him up into her arms. 

They make their way up to the second floor as instructed and meet with Bisky’s attorney near the entrance of Courtroom B. With luck, their case is first. The whole procedure is complete within ten minutes. The judge doesn’t seem to mind when Hisoka runs around the courtroom, even going behind the bench. She simply smiles, pulls Hisoka onto her lap, and lets him bang the gavel. Then, it’s all over. 

Bisky and Hisoka are outside Courtroom B soon enough. Hisoka skips along at Bisky’s side, hand in hers as they exit the courthouse. Suddenly, Hisoka sprints out in front of her, holding his hands up, clenching them open and closed. When Bisky picks him up, resting him on her hips, he cups his hands around her ear, whispering, “Does this mean you’re my real mommy now?”

Bisky stops in the middle of the parking lot. Turning her head, she finds herself looking into blue eyes blown wide. His hands are on his face, a finger or two in his mouth. He leans in, until their foreheads touch and she can feel his still damp bangs tickling her face. Her heart skips a beat. “Yes,” she whispers.

He giggles, high and loud, collapsing in towards her. His arms wrap around her neck and he buries his face into its crook. His legs swing to and fro, his hands grasp, and she can feel the flutter of his eyelashes on her skin. Then, he stills. A single wisp of breath leaves his mouth, barely noticeable. Finally, in a small, small voice, as if he were talking only to himself, he whispers, “You’re my mommy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, hello. Again, some disclaimers. I only did ballet for two days as a child, so I am relying on Youtube videos and research, as always. The same goes for the adoption process. I am realizing that the details of this fic can get kind of niche, but I'm sort of drawing from my own childhood, which is sort of my best reference material in terms of growing up, so I apologize if certain references don't make sense!!   
> Also, thanks to eyydude for helping me name Machi's dad!!

**Author's Note:**

> Attention! If you have no idea where this fic is going, do not be afraid. Neither do I! At the moment, I do not have any plans for this fic to have any clear plot line. It will mostly just be a collection of "day in the life of" snippets, hopefully chronological to Hisoka's aging, but who knows! This will be a journey for all of us! Additionally, this fic will not just be about Hisoka and Bisky alone. I will be adding in other HxH characters soon enough! Tags will be updated accordingly.
> 
> Also, I have no direct experience with the foster care system in the US. I have tried my best to research the system and the experiences of those in it. If I am at all misrepresenting it, please let me know!
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! Please leave a comment if you are so inclined!
> 
> best,  
> mira (@mirbnada6 on Twitter)


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